


pack the old love letters up

by redweathertiger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Road Trips, Threesomes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 13:16:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redweathertiger/pseuds/redweathertiger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Afternoon has already bled into evening—in another hour it’ll be dark. “Could we make it to the ocean tonight?” </p><p>“I think we could manage that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	pack the old love letters up

It’s July, two months until they ship off for college. If they were in any kind of story worth watching, this is when things would be getting bittersweet, when everybody would be falling a little in love with one another.

Instead, the days are too hot and too long, and Stiles hasn’t seen much of Scott. He hasn’t seen much of anybody, really. He works mornings and afternoons at the library, watching the clock. He watches too much Netflix and hasn’t made his bed in a while, hasn’t had a single good night’s sleep even though he’s had nothing but time. He wishes he could make himself call Scott, wishes that Scott would show up without Stiles having to call in the first place. He hates that the last time he saw Scott, Stiles picked a stupid fight and got Scott to leave early and frustrated.

Today’s a Friday and he gets off work at five. The thought of going home to do more of nothing actually makes his stomach hurt, so he pulls the jeep into the parking lot of the coffee place off Main Street. He can delay the inevitable with something icy and caffeinated.

He finds Allison in line to order.

She’s staring at nothing, fingertips pressed to her pursed lips. When she sees him, her eyes widen. Her hair is up, pulled away from her face and for a moment she doesn’t look like Allison at all, but Victoria. Strange and severe.

But then they are both attempting smiles and Allison looks like herself again. She looks as tired as Stiles feels.

+++

Allison orders her iced tea (no sugar, caffeine-free) and Stiles orders his sugary excuse for coffee (all syrup), and they share a wobbly table near the window that looks out on asphalt. They don’t have much to say.

“Are you working this summer?” she asks him.

“At the library, yeah.”

Allison didn’t show for graduation. Stiles can’t remember the last time he saw Allison with anybody—Lydia graduated in the winter, got the hell out. Landed an internship in Boston.

“You?” he asks, after a beat.

She shakes her head. “Taking a course at the college.”

And like that, they’ve run out of things to say. God, maybe Stiles has spent too much time alone after all. He stabs his straw in and out of the lid on his drink, making terrible, creaky noises. It makes Allison wrinkle up her nose and smile, just like she used to. It was a particular expression usually reserved for Stiles and whatever he was up to when he used to follow a step behind Allison and Scott.

He flushes, and Allison lets her smile turn almost fond before they lapse into silence again.

+++

They run out of excuses to stay. Stiles is just about to climb into the Jeep when he sees that Allison’s making her way out of the parking lot on foot.

“You didn’t drive?” asks Stiles.

Allison turns, has to shield her eyes against the afternoon sun. It catches on her dark hair, making a halo. “It’s either the bus or rides from my dad.”

“…You want a lift?”

Allison hesitates, and Stiles is sure she’s going to say no, but then she is walking over and getting in.

+++

When they pull up in front of the Argents’ house, Allison curls her fingers around the door handle but doesn’t make a move to get out. Stiles takes that as his cue to kill the engine and wait for whatever’s coming. Allison doesn’t say anything, though.

Stiles can’t see any lights on in the Argents’ house and remembers it’s just Allison and Chris living there now.

“Have you seen Scott lately?” asks Stiles before he can think better of it.

She shakes her head.

“Me either,” he says, after a little. “He’s up in Washington.”

Allison looks at him. Stiles doesn’t know why he can’t just shut up, but he keeps going anyway. “With Derek and Isaac. Pack stuff.”

Allison’s expression doesn’t change, exactly, but it looks like one that’s been practiced. It makes Stiles hate himself.

“I just need to get out of this town,” he says quietly. Allison swallows and nods, like that makes two of them.

But before Stiles can get his hand on the keys, Allison’s got her fingers wrapped around his arm. He almost jumps out of his skin. Her face is very close—eyes bright, suddenly conspiratorial. “Did you mean it?”

“Wha—“

“You want to get out of Beacon Hills?”

He looks at her, a funny feeling hitching up in his stomach. “Now?”

Her fingers tighten around his forearm, and that’s answer enough.

+++

And that is how, less than an hour later, the backseat of the Jeep is filled with two sleeping bags, one beat-to-hell Beacon Hills Cyclones duffle, a couple of towels, and an impressive-looking backpack that looks like kind of thing you have to special-order.

His dad’s working late. He leaves a voicemail for him at work—he’ll probably be happy to have Stiles out of the house for once this summer. Then he sticks a piece of paper on the fridge and scrawls _NO TAKE-OUT!!_ on it in sharpie. He knows it will be ignored, but it’s the principle of the thing.

When he picks up Allison again, the house is still dark. “What’d your dad say?”

“I left a note,” Allison says, carefully not looking at Stiles. He doesn’t press further. She buckles up.

“So, the desert? The ocean? Canada? What are we aiming for?” asks Stiles, thumping the sides of the wheel. He feels wide-awake for the first time in months.

Afternoon has already bled into evening—in another hour it’ll be dark. “Could we make it to the ocean tonight?”

“I think we could manage that.”

+++

Once they hit the highway, they roll the windows down, the night air delicious and cool. Allison tugs out her hair-tie, raking her fingers through the braid until it’s loose, whipping around in the wind.

They don’t really talk. They don’t turn on the radio, either.

Stiles can see Allison’s reflection in the side view mirror, illuminated whenever they pass another pair of headlights. She’s not quite smiling, but there’s some kind of relief there.

+++

It’s a beach Stiles knows from when he was small, when his mother would pack up a cooler and they’d stick a kite in the trunk. They’d roll the windows down and Stiles could smell it before he could hear it, hear it before he could see it, the horizon giving way to rippling blue.

The wooden sign says the beach is closed after ten pm, but they pull the car into the empty lot at two-forty am and nobody stops them. Allison slides out and slips off her flats, and they walk out to where the tide is rising. She sucks in a shuddery breath, wriggles her toes in the sand, and looks at him. “Well?”

“…Well?”

“Are we going in?”

“…”

Allison curls her fingers around the hem of her button-up.

“I didn’t bring a suit,” he says.

Allison looks at Stiles like he’s very, very boring, and takes off her shirt. Her skirt follows shortly, and then she’s standing there in her underwear, hands behind her like her bra’s going to coming off too. She’s all collarbones and rising goosebumps, her skin almost glowing under the moonlight, against the light reflecting off the water. Stiles swallows, mouth dry.

He strips off too, and he can feel her gaze run up and down his body.

He’s not self-conscious, alright?

…He’s a little self-conscious. He leaves his boxers on.

She doesn’t give him much time to over-think it. “Come on, then,” she says, and heads for the water.

He follows her in. The water is cold, but the night air is warm. Allison’s eyes shine in the dark.

+++

They drag their sleeping bags to a high point on the sand, and Stiles is asleep before he has chance to worry over all his usual night-time thoughts.

+++

The next morning, skin still prickling from the seawater, they get back in the car and keep driving north along the shoreline.

They stop at a diner, get breakfast and brush their teeth in the little customers-only bathroom. Stiles looks at the oatmeal that Allison is eating and asks if she is constitutionally opposed to things that taste good. Allison pretends not to hear, and then flicks a raisin at him. He shields his pancakes.

Stiles hasn’t buzzed his hair in a while—it’s getting long and his morning hair is particularly stupid-looking. Allison solves hers by sweeping it all up into a messy bun.

They find cheap campgrounds near a little beach town, reserve the smallest of spaces for the night and pay in cash. The showers are icy cold but Stiles feels significantly better after cleaning up and changing.

They wander around town. Allison buys cheap red plastic sunglasses, and Stiles points out the small movie theater, marquee advertising _Star Wars: A New Hope_.

Allison shrugs. “I’ve never seen them.”

Stiles stops in the middle of the sidewalk, aghast, makes the tourists with dogs and strollers walk around them.

“ _Allison_. Star Wars is _a cultural milestone_.”

She looks at him like she’s used to these kinds of reactions. “My parents weren’t big on movies. Or TV.”

He is still shaking his head when she lets him pull her into the theater.

+++

Their fingers smell like buttery popcorn when they leave, Stiles still chattering about the film. They’re walking down the water when he stops himself, abruptly, before he says: _Scott and I—_

Which is the beginning to too many of his sentences and almost all of the stories he has to tell.

He lets his words trail off, feeling sick all of a sudden.

He looks at Allison, and she looks like she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

+++

Stiles charges his phone at a little coffee shop, pouring packets of creamer and sugar into his black coffee. He calls his dad, tells him he’ll be gone for a couple more days. His dad asks where he is, who he’s with, if he’s okay. (“People from school, Dad. And I’m fine. We’re camping.”) He calls the library and tells them he’ll be out on Monday.

There’s a text from Scott that he doesn’t open.

Allison doesn’t check her phone at all. She lets her tea get cold in front of her, the little crease between her eyebrows deepening.

+++

They go skinny-dipping again, in a little cove they find off the main beach. This time Allison kicks off her underwear before wading in, and the flash of dark curls makes Stiles’ mouth go dry. After a moment, Stiles ditches his boxers.

The moon is full, a fact he doesn’t point out because it sends his thoughts to only one place. “This is the exact moment when the shark shows up, you know that?” he says instead.

Allison rolls her eyes, and spits a mouthful of salty seawater at his face.

He splashes her. “You probably haven’t seen Jaws anyway. _Heathen._ ”

+++

They build a little fire that night. (Alright, Allison builds their fire—Stiles’ career as a Boy Scout was very short-lived.)

Stiles watches the fire lick its way up the wood, eating it up. He watches the moving shadows it casts make Allison’s face look like a stranger’s.

+++

They wake up to a drizzle that turns into a downpour.

Shivering, they stash the soaked sleeping bags in the Jeep. They dry off in the town’s tiny library, which is all of three rooms. The librarian keeps checking in on them, her eyes narrowing at the way they drip on the furniture. The rain keeps coming down.

“Well. We could sleep in the Jeep,” offers Stiles.

Allison looks like she’s actually considering this. Stiles pictures it, briefly—sleeping twisted up, uncomfortable. The Jeep always smells a little off, too. Stiles blames years of werewolves-related crises and lacrosse gear. It’s not a pretty picture. “…Or we could find a motel?”

+++

They find a very cheap motel on the outskirts of town. Everything smells like cigarettes, and the woman working reception leers at the pair of them asking for a room like there’s only one thing they could be using it for.

+++

Allison showers first and is sitting cross-legged on the bed when Stiles gets out of the bathroom. She’s wearing one of Stiles’ flannels and a pair of underwear and not much else, clicking through the channels on the motel television.

“TV is all kinds of awful,” she says.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, and propping himself up against the headboard. “Yeah, it is.”

They settle on some kind of murder-mystery that looks very, very eighties, and soon Stiles is drifting off to the sounds of the rain streaking the windows, of voices on the television. He’s vaguely aware of Allison lying down next to him, bed dipping a little with the weight, the warmth of a body nearby, smelling like cheap shampoo and the sea.

+++

He wakes up slowly, curled around somebody, skin pressed against skin. The room is dark, his dick is hard, and he’s still mostly asleep, almost too warm to be comfortable. For a moment he thinks he’s in his own bed, that this somebody is a dark-haired boy who still falls asleep on Stiles’ bed when he stays over.

But that thoughts slips away and is replaced but realization that this is wrong, the room is all wrong—this isn’t his bed and that isn’t Scott and _oh_.

Allison’s shifting, blinking and twisting her neck to get a look at Stiles.

He gets up, half tripping off the bed in the process.

She’s propped up on her elbows, looking at him curiously. He stumbles backward and locks himself in the bathroom.

He takes a cold shower.

+++

When he opens the door again, tentatively, Allison is sitting at the foot of the bed, waiting for him. He steps into the room.

It’s an inky-blue evening outside the windows, still raining. The room is dark except for the TV that’s still playing, all soft background sounds and strange colored light.

Allison stands up, and Stiles stands still as she walks toward him, looking like she’s already decided something. When she gets close, he holds up his hands, feeling unaccountably anxious: _wait, just wait._ Instead of waiting, she reaches out and twines their fingers together, using that to tug him closer.

That’s where she stops, short of a kiss. She gives him a look, gives him an out. But instead of taking it, he closes the distance between them.

+++

He isn’t _completely_ inexperienced.

Before this, he’d kissed exactly two people.

The first was Scott McCall.

They were thirteen, and it was terrible, and afterward they made a pact Never To Speak Of It Again, though Stiles had thought about it plenty.

The second was Rebecca Harlowe.

There was freshman year, at sophomore Julie Lewinski’s not-so-sweet-sixteen. Stiles had lost count of the number of vodka-Dr. Pepper’s he’d ingested by the time Harley had dragged him into a hall closet. She’d pushed him against the musty sweaters and wool coats, gotten her fingers around his dick like this was something she’d done before.

He’d inhaled sharply and come very, very quickly.

He felt he ought to reciprocate.

But here’s the thing: he was drunk and sloppy and sleepy, and Harley’s jeans were really, really tight. Even after he’d gotten them unbuttoned and unzipped, there wasn’t much room to maneuver. And the angle was… very wrong. She let him fumble around for another twenty, thirty seconds before she’d wrapped her fingers around his wrist to tug his hand up and out.

“M _aaaaa_ ybe we’ll take a rain-check, huh?” she said, zipping up her pants. He was grateful it was too dark to see her expression.

He’d followed her out of the closet, dazed enough to not feel too bad about it until later. She’d never tried to kiss him again. He didn’t blame her.

With Allison, he catches on quickly. She likes to take the lead anyway.

+++

When she tugs at the waist of his boxers, his mouth goes completely dry. “Allison?” he asks, quietly.

Allison just steps back, hooks her thumbs in the waistband of her underwear, and drags them down. When they fall to the ground, she kicks them to the side.

She doesn’t break eye contact with him.

He swallows, but as soon as she kisses him again, he gets his fingers twisted in her long hair, likes the leverage it gives him. She nips at his bottom lip and pushes his boxers off, gets her fingers around his dick.

They don’t make it to the bed, that first time.

+++

Allison likes to bite. She likes to bite a lot. The man at the convenience store across from the motel eyes the marks creeping up his neck, eyes the condoms he’s buying at ten at night. Allison sidles up behind him, dropping some granola bars and bottled water in front of the register.

The man gives another look and rings them up. Allison pulls Stiles back to their little corner room that smells like cigarette smoke.

+++

Tuesday morning, he calls work again, and he spends the morning getting comfortable enough to take his time with his tongue and teeth and fingertips so that Allison’s shaking and whining by the time he actually gets his mouth where she needs him. It’s a revelation, watching somebody come apart like this, being the cause of it.

This is what Stiles likes:

the way Allison’s nipples go hard as soon as she tugs her shirt off, pink and pebbled.

that he can cradle Allison’s hips in his hands, run his thumbs over the sharp jut of her hipbone. He likes that she shudders all over when he bites there, chasing it with his tongue. He likes the way her muscles jump when he trails his way down, to her soft inner thighs, to the tender skin behind her knees. He likes the way she twists when he skims the pads of his fingers up her leg.

being inside of her. He likes the expression she gets when she rides him, one hand on his chest. She fucks herself on him with her eyes closed, biting at her bottom lip, focused entirely on the feeling.

that Allison directs and redirects him to sweeter and sharper sensations with her hands—fingers pressed up against his to get them to curl just so, sharp tugs at his hair as she rocks up against his mouth until all he can smell and taste is her.

when she laughs, in the middle of all it, helpless smile breaking across her face. It’s breathless and all dimples, like he hasn’t seen her smile in months and months. That might be what he likes best.

+++

While the sweat cools and Stiles lies with his head on Allison’s stomach, feeling her breathe, her fingers carding idly through his hair, he thinks about how he hated Allison in the very beginning. For existing at all. For making Scott smile like that. How after that, he hated Scott for being the only person in the world who could put up with him. For not being his anymore. And how after that, he just hated himself.

Stiles is not a very nice person.

+++

They go for a walk along the boardwalk. They don’t hold hands, but they bump shoulders as they go along. Allison wears her red sunglasses and Stiles doesn’t bother hiding his hickeys. They don’t talk about home. They don’t talk about much at all.

He fucks her up against a warehouse, down one of the side streets, her legs wrapped around his hips, her head thrown back, neck long and exposed.

Later, they’ll go swimming. He’ll lick the salt off her skin afterward.

+++

That night, he sleeps badly, and wakes at four am to find Allison at the window, watching the freeway. Fingertips pressed to her lips.

He sits up. “Can’t sleep?”

She looks at him. “Bad dreams.”

She doesn’t elaborate and he doesn’t ask. They give up on sleep, go for a walk on the beach instead, watch the sunrise.

+++

There’s a voicemail from Scott waiting on his phone, which he doesn’t open. He doesn’t even bother calling in sick to work.

It starts raining again. There’s a _Twilight Zone_ marathon playing on TV, and Stiles gets Allison off with three fingers curled up inside of her, knuckle-deep. Allison bucks up against him and bites at the meat of his shoulder, Rod Serling narrating in the background.

They drowse the day away, never really sleeping. After the rain stops, after night falls, Allison says quietly, “We need to go home.”

Stiles nods, and knows that for the both of them, home is a who, not a where.

+++

Back in the Jeep, Allison has the window rolled down. Her reflection in the side-view mirror is closed-off.

The radio goes crackly whenever they pass through another town, a confusion of static and voices and songs. It plays like that for hours, but Allison switches it off as soon as they to Beacon Hills’ city limits, just after sunset.

They drive right to the McCall’s house. It’s not a decision they make aloud. Stiles just finds himself taking all the backroads and turns that go right to Scott’s.

+++

Melissa goes through about four different expressions when she sees the two of them at her doorstep, before settling on saying that Scott’s at the vet clinic.

“Can we wait for him?”

Melissa looks like she’s going to tell Stiles off, but something about the two of them makes her sigh and tell them to go upstairs, that she’s off to work.

It’s strange to wait in Scott’s room. Stiles sits on the edge of the bed, but finds he can’t stay still. Allison leans against the desk and doesn’t move at all.

+++

The bright blue Jeep is an announcement if ever there was one, and after they hear the front door bang shut, it’s only a moment before Scott’s in the doorway of his room, looking some kind of shell-shocked at the two of them. His expression might have started out accusatory, but it got lost along the way. Now he just looks like he’s hurting.

Allison and Stiles stand up in absurd unison, and there’s a terrible, stretched-out moment where none of them do anything at all.

It’s Stiles who crosses the distance to pull Scott into a hug. He wonders for a moment if Scott is going to push him away or freeze up, and he doesn’t know what would be worse. But then Scott has his arms around Stiles, fingers bunched so tight in Stiles’ shirt that he can feel short fingernails digging into his skin. Stiles feels a little like his heart is cracking open.

Stiles was raised by his man’s-man father, all firm handshakes and firm hugs when the occasion called for it. But Scott was just cuddly, and had never offered an explanation or apology for needing to be close. They’d share a bed when they were younger, and Scott would inevitably curl up against him. When they sat side by side, it was Scott who’d press up against him like it was the most natural thing in the whole world.

Now, Scott’s face is smashed up against Stiles’ neck, face hidden. Then Allison is coming up behind Scott, wrapping her arms around him, getting her fingers in the collar of Stiles’ shirt, reeling them all in tighter, effectively making a Scott sandwich.

They stay like that for a while, the three of them all tangled up. Not too comfortably, but the need to be near overwhelms their need to readjust.

+++

Eventually Scott does start getting shifty, half-extracting himself from the hug but leaving one arm around Stiles’ waist, fingers still bunched in his shirt. He turns to look at Allison, then at Stiles, dazed and a little bewildered, looking like he’s just about to start asking questions.

Instead of letting Scott talk, Allison curves her hand around his jaw, pulls him in for a kiss. And then they are kissing in earnest, wet little noises and heavy breathing and Stiles freezes, absolutely freezes. There’s panic in his chest and heat pooling low in his belly, all the blood going to his dick. He feels like an intruder in his own body.

Without breaking the kiss, Allison reaches to grasp at Stiles’ free hand, to settle it on Scott’s hip. Then she guides it, drags it up Scott’s side, pushing up Scott’s shirt with it. As soon as skin touches skin, Scott shivers and whines and then everything is back in motion. Everything is sensation and Scott and Allison.

Allison takes her hand back, but Stiles is already sliding his palm over Scott’s chest, raking his nails across Scott’ stomach, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the side of Scott’s neck.

They do make it to the bed, that first time. Stiles apologizes with hands and with his mouth and Scott forgives him like he’s always forgiven him. Allison kisses Scott until his lip is bleeding a little and Allison won’t stop smiling.

They take it from there.

+++

 

The summer ends here:

home, with room for three.


End file.
